


Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by Rieanmort



Series: Summers in Kirkwall [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Varric Tethras (Mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 06:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13428846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rieanmort/pseuds/Rieanmort
Summary: Garrett Hawke – Champion of Kirkwall; ally to the Inquisition; Hero of Adamant Fortress; Survivor of the Fade – felled at the hands of some adolescent gang of starving Nevarran outlaws, just twelve miles from the southern border.After years of either fighting, or running, or just simply being apart, a road side skirmish leads to Fenris and Hawke making an unexpected decision about their future.





	Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Well, this was it.

Garrett Hawke – Champion of Kirkwall; ally to the Inquisition; Hero of Adamant Fortress; Survivor of the Fade – felled at the hands of some adolescent gang of starving Nevarran outlaws, just twelve miles from the southern border.

Dead. Taken by a tiny arrow coated in cheap poison.

And the thing about cheap poison, Hawke mused as another wave of pain subsided slightly, was that it was unpredictable.

A proper rogue should spend a bit more on their tricks. A cheap bottle _might_ eventually work in the end, if luck meant it was a good batch, but more likely it would mean nothing more than a few days of fever and pain. All with no way of knowing for certain which might happen until, well, it does.

So, Hawke did all he knew how to do in times like this, he laughed.

“This isn’t exactly the glorious death everyone predicted.”

“You _aren’t_ dying.” Fenris snarled lowly. His nose was crinkled in that very special way that meant he was either seriously disgusted, or seriously displeased. Hawke suspected he knew which.

“You sure?” Hawke smiled sarcastically, followed by a particularly pitiful attempt at a chuckle that the shivers wracking through him had converted into a noise which sounded scarily like a broken sob.

With steady hands – steady to the point of surprising even himself – Fenris pulled away the last blood-soaked layer of fabric from Hawke’s torso, unceremoniously throwing it onto the floor.

“I am sure.”

Maker have mercy, Fenris would not let Hawke die today.

 

* * *

  _“We should go back to that inn.” Hawke said, kicking the dried dirt beneath his worn boots. Seconds later, Hawke cursed, his foot landing roughly on yet another jagged rock. His luck had not been favourable._

_They had been walking now for almost two straight weeks. Side by side through armies of similar looking towns, each one poor and barely recovering from the breach. And not one with a single horse to spare._

_Before that it had been the Anderfells. Weisshaupt. And the slow and eventual realisation that the Warden hierarchy out here cared very little about anything he had to say to them._

_“No.” Fenris answered firmly, rolling his eyes at Hawke’s latest complaint. “We can go further today. And we’ll camp again if we need to.”_

_Hawke smiled, just a little, and with his shoulder nudged his lover gently, taking victory in the way the corners of Fenris’s lips twitched in silent amusement. “But why? We have plenty of coin to waste – courtesy of the new Viscount. It’s about time he began to pay me back.”_

_At that Fenris did laugh. A real laugh. One that still sounded like music to Hawke’s ears so soon after their reunion. Maker, he had missed it._

_“From what I recall, it is you who are indebted to him.”_

_“Yes. Well.” Hawke snorted, “Varric cheats. Everyone knows that.”_

 

* * *

“Fuc-fucking hell.”  Hawke hissed.

His fists were curled, nails cutting crescents into the palm of his hand. Hawke’s head tipped backwards against the hard mattress as Fenris inspected the wound, the pads of his fingers pressing gently to the edges of the torn skin. It was burning, ragged and untidy, infection already raging within.

“Stay still.”

“It hurts.”

“Obviously.”

Hawke grimaced, “Wh-what will you tell Varric?”

“You mean the Viscount?” Fenris answered with a dry chuckle that made no attempt to reach his eyes. This was worse than he had hoped for.

“Yeah. Him too.”

In times like this Fenris very almost missed having the company of the abomination. The village was small, a stable, a couple of houses and an inn. The Inn keeper had greeted them with an apologetic smile and the truth of the unfortunate situation -  there was no healer for ten miles.

He had to make do with what he had.

Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a small wooden box. Cheaply made, but necessary. He had purchased it from an “apothecary” in the Anderfells – Fenris had felt the magic on her, whispering through the air around his tattoos, but he held his tongue. Something like this was expensive, but worth every coin.

At the time he just didn’t know what to expect; he didn’t know what he’d find as he edged closer to Weisshaupt, he didn’t know what state Hawke would be in when he found him. And experience had taught him to expect the worse.

With careful fingers he unfastened the latch, lifting it to examine the contents inside. Dried elfroot and prophet laurel were twisted around seven small glass bottles, each labelled by a shaky hand. Potent healing potions, cleansing spirits, and a foul looking poultice that Fenris prayed would be enough to draw out the worst of the poison.

“I’ll tell him,” Fenris said at last, pulling a clear bottle from the box, “that after all these years, you still can’t watch your flank.”

Hawke answered with a weak grin, “That isn’t fair. I was too busy watching _your_ flank.”

 

* * *

  _It_ _had been little more than a skirmish._

_A gang of desperate eyed men who just happened to have ambushed the wrong people. Hawke tried to talk them down, he flashed them his most charming of smiles only to be awarded an arrow to his side. Fenris didn’t waste time after that. It was not their fault if these bandits could not be reasoned with._

_It didn’t take long, before they knew it the dust was already beginning to settle, the four hooded men laying silently on the road, their eyes staring and unseeing. Looting of bodies was an old habit. They did have coin in their pockets now, a promissory note signed by the Viscount of Kirkwall himself. But still, it never hurt to pat them down._

_Isabela would be proud._

_It was Fenris who had found it, after the worst of the blood was wiped quickly from his face. He found the bottle hanging from the archer’s pack, wrapped in a black label.  With a yank he pulled the stopper free, recoiling as the smell of the contents hit him instantly. It was nauseating._

_It was poison._

_By the side of the road, Hawke stood, his face pale and panting as he pulled the tip of the arrow free from his flesh. Something was wrong. He could feel it already. The wound was not deep. Nothing he hadn’t received countless times. This was something he would normally throw a few stitches at, something he would hardly pay mind to._

_But something just wasn’t right._

_Hawke’s eyes met Fenris’s, the bottle still gripped tight in his clawed hand. And he suddenly understood._

_With poison, even this shallow wound would be more than enough._

_Running on instinct, Fenris moved._

 

* * *

"This will hurt.” Said Fenris, with a calmness that did little to ease the raging storm inside his chest. “I am sorry.”

It would do them no good if he acknowledged the fear in Hawke’s amber eyes. Fenris could not afford to panic. Right now, Hawke needed him calm and centred. Hawke _needed_ him. They had gone through worse, each of them in their turn, and Fenris swore to the Maker and every other god that they would do so again.

Hawke gave a shallow nod. “Do it.”

Cleansing spirits burned like liquid fire, wiping the wound free of more infection than Fenris could have ever hoped to achieve with the stale tank of water kept within the run-down inn. Even if it was boiled first.

After a moment Hawke began to writhe, his body stiff and arched. It was as if he was fitting, shaking on the bed as his body tried to escape the pain. Fenris continued.

He would not risk Hawke surviving the poison only to succumb to a damn infection. The wound had to be cleaned properly.

Hawke bore it the best he could. Grunting in pain, the noise echoing off the thin yellow walls. Nails began to tear at the coarse fabric of the sheets. Vaguely he thought he could make out the pressure of Fenris’s hand, cool and solid on his chest, an anchor to keep him grounded on the bed. Maybe, through his own moans and whimpers, he thought he heard a voice, a low voice whispering soft words in a language that Hawke still didn’t understand.

And then blackness.

 

* * *

  _They walked back. Their pace as quick as it could be._

_Camping would do them no good if Hawke took a bad turn. They needed somewhere sheltered, somewhere warm and clean._

_“You should have listened to me.” Hawke gasped. Sweat was beginning to gather at the hollow of his back, on his neck and on his brow. And the sudden chill of the spring wing seeped through his clothing, running its cold claws along his skin. “We should have stayed in the inn in the first place.”_

_“If I apologised would it make a difference?”_

_“No.”_

_The inn was only a mile away when Hawke’s step began to falter, his body shivering as the poison and its fever tightened their hold on him. Fenris moved to his side before he could even speak, his strong arm wrapping around Hawke’s waist and steadying each one of the rogue’s uncertain steps._

_This couldn’t happen. Not now. Not so soon._

_Hawke had survived Kirkwall. The Fade. The sorry mess that was Weisshaupt._

_And now they were together. For good. Finally. Forever. All was forgiven._

_“This is a bit shit.”_

_“Always so observant.” Fenris snapped, his voice devoid of any actual venom. Through his leathers, and the soft budding pain, Hawke felt Fenris’s grip on him tighten._

_“I love you.”_

_“Shut up.”_

 

* * *

 “I love you.”

Hawke awoke slowly, his eyes watering against the harsh light of the candle. Fenris was sat by his side, legs curled beneath him on the bed, his armour gone, and his brow furrowed as he watched over Hawke with worried eyes.

“What you say?” Hawke smiled tiredly. His attempt to sit up was foiled quickly, his body felt foreign to him, and the sharp jab of pain from the fresh stitches forced him flat with a whinging grunt.

“Stay still.” Fenris sighed in irritation, sliding down so that he lay closer to his lover.

He had done all he could. The wound was cleaned, and wrapped tightly, the bandages lined with a disgusting looking poultice of elfroot and charcoal. All he could do was wait and hope that would be enough to draw the poison out. That and force healing potions down Hawke’s throat if the fever grew worse.

“It is not as bad as it might have been.” Fenris added after a moment of silence. Carefully he ran a hand over the damp skin of Hawke’s brow, content to find him cooler. “Your fever is mild, but you must rest.”

“Sounds good.” Hawke mumbled, doing his best to lean into Fenris’s soft caress.

It had been some time since they had stayed still for more than a day.

Their reunion was one of angry curses and passionate kisses, intercut with wet apologies and soft pleas. This had been immediately followed, of course, by the journey south. Days upon days of walking, all in the rush to put some distance between themselves and the unforgiving wastelands of the northern countries.

It was such a shame then, Hawke thought through the haze of his fever and the tiredness making his eyes heavy, that their first time resting since should be wasted on this.

“We could go to Ferelden.” Fenris said. Half to Hawke, who was fighting sleep beneath the small blanket Fenris was allowing him, and half to himself.  “You could show me Lothering – if it has been rebuilt.”

Relenting, Hawke let his eyes slide shut, the soft baritone of Fenris’s voice calling him closer to sleep, dragging him under. “Hmm. I want to go home.”

The thought was clear. A beacon of light shining through the muddled mess of Hawke’s mind. Had he been thinking straight it might have never been spoken, just another desire for him to bury silently.

Joining their hands, Fenris chuckled, his fingers sliding easily between Hawke’s own. “Then we shall.”

“No. Not _Ferelden_. Our home.”

A pause. Fenris studied Hawke’s face carefully as he at last succumbed to sleep, a smile slowly teasing at the elf’s lips. There was nothing left in their way; nothing stopping them. It would not be the same, but, but together it could be _something._ A new chapter. Maker willing, a happier one. One that they would start and end _together._

Hawke would survive this.

And they’d go home. Together.

“Then I’ll write to Varric.”

**Author's Note:**

> My unbeta'd first voyage into the DA fandom. I'm not 100% happy with it and I am very open to constructive criticism and feedback. 
> 
> Hopefully will be the first part/prequel to a series dealing with Kirkwall post Inquisition, featuring Hawke and my elven Inquisitor Mahanon. 
> 
> Title from "Stopping at the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.


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